


The [Drinking] Games We Play

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Birthday, Drinking Games, It's Eve's birthday party and she wants to have some old-fashioned fun, Kissing, M/M, Mild Voyeurism, Moneypenny likes the kissing - hence the voyeurism tag, R is a tattletale, Some unexpected rules, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For her birthday, Eve invited all of her friends from MI6 and informed them that this was going to be a 'normal' birthday party: meaning cake, presents, as well as alcohol... and creative drinking games.  Q isn't entirely sure what he thinks about all of these rules, especially the one that says: 'If you use a person's first name or a common nickname, you have to lie with your head in their lap until someone else breaks the rule.'</p><p>But Q lifts his glass and agrees to the party rules anyway, because it's Eve's birthday.  Let the shenanigans begin!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The [Drinking] Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just a crazy story about a birthday party - it all tumbles into some 00Q at the end, but expect all many of other wild moments! For examples, there's a tiny bit of Alec Trevelyan/Gareth Mallory in there... and a bit of stripping by a girl in accounting _and_ Bond. And singing. There's drunken/not drunken singing. 
> 
> Basically, this is a 'party mix' in all senses of the word! ^_^ I'm still on vacation and exercising my right to write whatever I want until I return in July!! Wheeeeeee...!

Q had never really expected to be invited to an MI6 drinking game party, but he supposed that weirder things had happened.  At least the atmosphere was decidedly lighter than he’d expected, considering that everyone was either an assassin-spy or else employed at jobs that made those agents deadlier and more dangerous.

It was Moneypenny’s idea - it was a request for her birthday, actually.  She had a flat large enough to accommodate a small party, and apparently 007’s contribution involved buying the alcohol - which meant that it was all top-notch stuff, but also that there were very large quantities.  Moneypenny was ecstatic, but she still maintained that this was going to be a classy party.

Her definition of ‘classy’ actually reminded Q more of his uni days, as Eve almost immediately brought out a long sheet of handwritten rules and taped them up on the doorway for all of her guests to see.  “All right, everyone,” she called, voice smooth but smile wicked as agents and less lethal employees all turned from whatever they’d been doing, Mallory having just arrived but already possessing a drink thanks to Alec’s quick hands.  “God knows we get little enough normalcy and fun in our line of work, so this is going to sound childish, but you are all going to do it - or else you’re going to go home right now, knowing that you’ve left a very unhappy birthday girl behind.”  This threat was said with that same smile, and elicited a few chuckles, but everyone also exchanged worried looks.  When unhappy, Eve was devilish under even the most mundane circumstances, but with the added tag of ‘birthday girl’ pouring fuel onto the fire, she’d be Satan himself/herself to anyone who dared to question her.  Fortunately, even the most stiff tech analysts (Q) and the most wild-tempered 00-agents (a tie between 007 and 6) had to admit that a chance at a bit of ‘fun’ sounded nice.

Ignoring the rules taped up behind her for a moment, Eve outlined the evening’s proceedings, which included the eating of cake (‘Happy Birthday’ song optional) and the opening of presents, just like any child would enjoy.  The addition of alcohol, however, was where things got a little bit more adult, and Eve finally turned back to her list.  “The entire evening is a drinking game, and everyone is responsible for knowing these rules, and calling out those who forget,” she said archly, then cut a glance Q’s way to add, “And since we’ve got someone with a photographic memory, I trust that there will be no slips, right, Q?”

Uncomfortable as the center of attention and wondering when in hell his eidetic memory had become the pivot-point of a drinking game, Q hid behind his glass of wine and blinked owlishly before coming up with a belated answer, “If we’re depending on me as rule-keeper, does that mean that I’m excluded?”

“Never, Q,” Alec - his breath already smelling alarmingly of alcohol but his every movement still as eerily steady and quiet as a cat’s - stated expansively, sneaking up behind Q to loop an arm over his shoulders without warning.  “Come on, Eve,” he turned his attention to the birthday girl without actually releasing Q, who had never managed to withstand this much physical contact without fidgeting and definitely wasn’t improving now, “Give us agents some credit - we’ve got memories, too, you know.”

Soon everyone was boasting how they’d be able to remember the rules, and Q realized that that had been Moneypenny’s plan all along.  He shuffled his glass into one hand long enough to pull out his cell-phone and text the woman ~Clever girl~ in true Jurassic Park fashion.  

“Ah!” Eve said, at the exact same time that Q pressed send, making the Quartermaster wonder how she could already know what he’d sent her.  She was looking at his phone, however, and pointing an imperious finger at it, “Rule number one - if you touch your phone during the game, the person who caught you is allowed to send any text message to anyone on your contacts list.”  That led to some very reasonable arguments and protests breaking out, but Eve was unbending - she only capitulated so far as to say, “Fine - you all have ten minutes to set up your phones so that work-related details remain work-related.  I’m sure that there are ways to set alarms so that you know if you’re getting an important text, right, Q?”  Moneypenny, the imp, batted her eyes his way guilelessly, adding, “And no one wants to ruin my party by being glued to their phones, do they?”

The grumbling continued at a lower volume, but everyone dragged out their phones to use their ten minutes wisely.  Mallory wisely suggested in a _sotto voce_ tone to a woman from accounting next to him that adding work contacts to a separate list would also avoid any disastrous incidents.  All of the agents present already had a good system of keeping both ‘work’ and ‘play’ mobiles, so they were ready to play almost instantly, all sensitive information stored elsewhere.

There were other rules, some not even related to drinking.  Eve had music playing in the background, loud enough in the kitchen to be almost obnoxious, but anyone caught singing along had to remove an article of clothing - the woman from accounting immediately flushed a deep red, and Q knew that this friend of Eve’s would be the first to end up naked if she wasn’t careful.  A few agents, even more adept than Q at reading facial hints, began smirking with predatory humor.

Another rule that seemed to favor the agents was called ‘The Photographer’.  Moneypenny had a camera, a slim little thing that she kept tucked into a pocket, and she reserved the right to take it out at any time during the party and point it in any direction.  Everyone then had to rush to get into the picture as she counted down loudly from three.  The last person into the picture (or anyone who never made it at all by the time she depressed the button) had to take a drink.  The agents, being watchful and also physically quick, were very likely to excel at this rule.  Other rules had them cornered, however: swearing was punishable by drinking a shot (not really a punishment, but still), as was saying the word ‘drunk,’ which Q feared many of them would be by the time the night ended.  

One rule favored Q and his techs, however, of which there were three present (including R, whose personality was getting more bubbly with every sip of ‘bubbly’ that she took).  By this point, it was Tanner who was reading the rules, as Eve went to grab her cake, “Anyone caught using anyone’s first name or a common nickname loses, according to rule number…”  Tanner stopped, blinking, “Why are these numbered this way?  This one says sixty-nine but it’s only the sixth on the list.”

While a few very, very lewd chuckles erupted at points around the room, and even Mallory covered his mouth and pinked a little while pretending not to catch the connotation whatsoever, Eve called out idly from the kitchen, “I must have gotten distracted.  Just keep reading.”

Tanner frowned but obeyed, “...According to this rule, anyone caught using first names or common nicknames must put their head in that person’s lap until someone else breaks the rule.”

By now, Moneypenny was back in the room, bearing an absolutely decadent-looking cake that appeared to have no less than three kinds of chocolate purely on the outside layer.  “I love that Rule 69,” she sighed beatifically, then flicked back her hair with a shake of her head and glanced over at Bond, “Now, Blue-Eyes, what say you use those knife-skills of yours to cut me a piece of cake?”

“For you, Empress,” James replied suavely, keeping within the bounds of Rule 69 easily, “Anything.”

Fortunately, since the rules allowed for last names, most everyone was safe without having to creatively apply nicknames like Eve and James so unashamedly did.  That made Q perk up a bit proudly, because unlike many others in the room, he hadn’t really gotten familiar enough (with anyone but Eve) to call them by their first names.  Q-branch in general was practically indoctrinated to call every agent by their last name, usually in an exasperated or furious tone.  So, in this case, the ‘No first names or nicknames’ rules made the techies in the group more relaxed instead of more awkward.  

The rules went on: no drinking with your dominant hand (a tricky one when Eve realized just how many agents were ambidextrous: all of them, and none would admit whether they’d been born that way or not), definitely no speaking of work, and failure to clink cups with the birthday girl was punishable by a shot, too.  Of course, if Eve forgot to raise her glass for just such a touching of cups, she also suffered the same punishment - the big kicker, though, was that Eve reserved the right to choose what shots everyone took, and some of the ones she’d prepared beforehand were truly terrible or terribly _strong_.  The first time that 006 swore on purpose to earn himself a shot (and probably attention), Eve regally handed him a shot-glass with a purple-colored liquid in it that apparently burned like fire on the way down but also tasted like cough-syrup and tabasco sauce.  

Speaking of work more than once brought about the additional rule (made up on the spot by Moneypenny) that whoever did so would be required to drink two-handed for the rest of the evening.  The thought of a grown man like Mallory sipping a pint cradled in both hands made Q chuckle inwardly until he was the first one to break the rule.  

“Uh-uh!  Gotcha, sir!” R chirped when Q committed his second folly so soon after the first that he immediately suspected foul play.  His shot for talking about work the first time had tasted horridly of bananas and whisky, but now he glanced around the room with a cornered expression as everyone turned at R’s accusatory (and perhaps rather gleeful) voice.  When Eve looked over, R flicked back her dyed hair and stated, “His Royal Techiness just tried to lure me into talking about work for the second time.”

“Traitor,” Q muttered, but at everyone’s beckoning, moved the stem of his wine-glass into two hands and tried to think of what other drink he liked that would look more appropriate clasped in two hands.  He rolled his eyes when everyone chuckled and at least one person called him ‘cute’ with his double-pawed grip.  

There was the ‘Light-bulb Rule’: picking up or putting down one’s drink required a twisting motion like one was unscrewing or screwing in a light-bulb.  Failure to do so meant that the person had to finish their drink.  Q, fortunately, didn’t fail at that one, because he knew that with his constitution, chugging any kind of drink in one go would lead to a swift increase in inebriation.  However, his keen eyes were especially useful in differentiating between when someone was turning their glass clockwise or counterclockwise, and Eve laughed uproariously when Q started catching people for ‘unscrewing’ their glasses from the tables in the wrong direction.  Bond was the first one he caught: the man was canny, but he wasn’t prepared for how committed Q was to taking this rule to the utmost level of detail, and actually looked startled when Q came up to him and lightly informed him, “You just screwed your whiskey harder into the table instead of loosening it.  You’d better try again.”  Feeling very proud of himself even as blue eyes stared at him in bewilderment, Q let a tiny smirk slip as he finished, feeling eyes turn his way from all around the room as he caught the great 007, “And then you’d better down your glass and get another.”

Once Bond understood what Q was getting at, he argued, “This is ridiculous,” but apparently Q was Eve’s favorite when she wasn’t laughing at him for holding his cup in both hands, because she immediately supported his interpretation of the rule.  After that, James gave in rather too quickly.  Perhaps he was feeding off the limelight, too, because instead of embarrassing himself with more arguing, he smirked, shrugged, looked Q dead in the eye, and proceeded to drink down an entire and rather sizable tumbler of whiskey as if it were mother’s milk.  There was cheering by the time he was done, and Q didn’t realize how close he was standing until 007 leaned a little closer, his breath smelling of vanilla and alcoholic bite.  “I guess I’ll just have to be careful about how I screw things into the table in future occasions,” he said in a throaty purr before walking away to get another drink.  He very artfully twisted his empty glass upon the countertop before letting it go - clockwise this time, correctly ‘screwing’ his glass in place.  Q found himself flushing as if _he’d_ been the one gulping whiskey.

Eve’s job of photography led to many unmitigated photography disasters.  She used her powers liberally and without warning, flicking out her camera and pointing it in random and sometimes honestly uncomfortable directions – Q would not have have thought that thirteen people could fit into a bathroom.  Oftentimes, people were too spread out to reach the photograph in time when they heard Eve’s loud counting, but Q learned early on to watch the 00-agents instead of listening for Eve’s voice.  To a man, the agents would suddenly stand alert like dogs at point, seeing Eve reach for the camera and therefore getting a head-start on the game.  Soon, Q would be a step behind them, and after being sandwiched between 007 and 002 for the third time, the agents seemed to notice.  “Are you riding on our coattails by any chance, my technologically gifted little friend?” James asked glibly as everyone jostled to get into the camera’s viewing range.

Q bristled at being called ‘little’ when he and James were nearly of a height, but grew less disgruntled when the man shifted to save Q from an accidental elbowing.  So the Quartermaster admitted, “I might be strategically using my available resources to get into these damnable pictures.”

“Swearing!” R suddenly called out from the front of the photo-group, just before Eve shouted, “Three!” and took the picture.  The photograph caught a conglomeration of MI6 personnel jockeying for position, R pointing triumphantly back at the Quartermaster over Tanner’s shoulder, and Q giving her the evil eye for catching him.  Again.

Q’s next shot tasted faintly of amaretto and was actually rather nice.

The first person, ironically, to forget about the ‘Names’ rule was Mallory.  Professional that he was, he’d survived all of the cake-serving without even hesitating on people’s names - he could say last names as naturally as Q could.  However, when he was trying to reach the trash cans to throw away his plate, Alec Trevelyan was in the way, and apparently so engrossed in his conversation with R that he didn’t listen to polite murmurs or even impolite growls of “Trevelyan.  Trevelyan!”  However, when Mallory (in a moment of weakness, no doubt) hissed under his breath, “Alec, move your arse,” the 00-agent was suddenly all ears.  

Mallory, of course, froze like a deer in the headlights for the first time in anyone’s living memory.  He was a generally unflappable man, but now, as Alec turned around with a positively evil look of surprise and delight on his face, the head of MI6 looked like he was in front of a firing squad.  Truth be told, Alec had been ignoring his last name all evening, but Mallory was the first fish he’d managed to snag with that bait.  Alec had actually been shamelessly fishing for R.  Instead, with much cajoling and catcalling from all sides, 006 and Mallory were herded over to the sofa, where Alec sat down like an unexpected king, and Mallory - the hapless jester in this scenario - eventually sat, and then lay, down under protest.  He gingerly put the back of his head on Alec’s left thigh, sighing to show how unprofessional he found all of this, but gamely stayed put.

Who knew how long the situation would have continued.  Alec actually started to get uncomfortable pretty quickly, realizing that he had his boss’s head in his lap and that neither of them were drunk enough to not remember all of this.  Mallory’s embarrassed look was also giving way to a glare that said this was all Alec’s fault, and that 006 _would pay_.  When 006 tried to defend himself, saying that he’d been attempting to catch the attention (and physical contact) of a certain blue-haired tech-analyst, R just happened to be near enough to hear.  

So she wandered over, looked over the uncomfortable pair, and then said as clearly as a bell, “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, Gareth.”

Alec’s look of betrayal was matched only by Mallory’s expression of startled pleasure, as he was not only released from his position but given the reverse (with a different partner) as a reward.  It was still a bit embarrassing for the second-in-command of Q-branch to lie with her head on the lap of the head of MI6, but somehow, it helped that Alec refused to move away - so R’s legs had no choice but to end up across the 00-agent’s legs in turn.  Everyone ended up surprisingly happy.  That also heralded the dam bursting on rule-breakers, and soon people were trading laps everywhere, sometimes barely getting a chance to touch down before someone else suffered a slip of the tongue.  Shots of all kinds were distributed liberally as the cake was finished up.  Q finally got to pay R back for being a shameless tattletale when he saw her reaching absently for her phone – he waited until it was clearly in her hand, even if her thoughts were obviously elsewhere, then called her on it loudly enough to startle the man next to him, which turned out to be 007.  R flushed vibrantly when she became the next source of amusement and attention, but went from embarrassed to horrified when Eve walked over and said imperiously, “Give it up, girl – your boss caught you fair and square, so now he gets one free text!”

No one argued with the birthday girl.  Q got R’s phone, and opened it up gleefully even though she’d locked the screen.  Many others had already forgotten the ‘No Phones’ rule, and Q was the unspoken referee who stepped in whenever someone thought that they’d be smart by locking up their phones – idle trespassers might have been stumped, but Q was a hacker of renown.  Nothing kept him out.  He also, coincidentally, made sure whenever he could that only sensibly teasing texts were sent, because he knew how quickly practical jokes could go awry, and no one wanted to ruin anyone else’s life over a ‘free text.’

“So what punishment are you going to meet out, Oh Benevolent Boffin?”  James, who was quickly becoming the most insufferable person in the room with his newly minted nicknames, leaned over Q’s shoulder and eyed R’s phone with avaricious, amused eyes.

Q, putting his glass down with a careful clockwise turn to free up both of his hands, cast James a look and muttered back, “Not so benevolent if you keep calling me names like that.”

“What else am I to call you?  No one here knows your real first name, much less your surname, and it would be unseemly of me to get caught with my head in your lap,” the 00-agent answered as easily as a spider spinning thread.  Bond spun lies usually, but in this case he was weaving out truth and innuendo, which was almost worse.

Snorting but not deigning to follow that conversation further, Q began scrolling through R’s ‘safe’ contacts while the young woman in question stood a ways off with obvious trepidation.  Q stopped on one with a grin.  “Did you mother ever forgive you for getting that piercing that I am never to speak of?” Q asked her.

R’s eyes narrowed.  “She doesn’t know about it.  Hence the part about never speaking of it again.”  Suddenly her eyes widened in time with Q’s slow smile.  “You wouldn’t dare!”

Q was already typing, however, and all of those still watching hooted with laughter as R charged Q and swiped her phone back.  The ‘send’ button had already been hit, so Q gave it up easily, and ‘unscrewed’ his glass again to take another two-handed sip from it.

James had remained at his side.  “That was a lower blow than I’d have ever expected from you,” the 00-agent commented, eyes on R and no particular inflection in his tone to show whether James was judging him or secretly congratulating him.

Shrugging, Q replied after another sip, “Actually, all I sent was, ‘Will you meet me for dinner tomorrow?’ but figured that this sounded more dramatic.”  When Bond’s eyes snapped to Q in smirking surprise, Q maintained his calm expression and dry tone to add, “Of course, R and her mother get along about as well as two porcupines in a sack, so it probably _was_ underhanded, you’re right.”

Chuckling, 007 made no further comment on Q’s comparative evilness and mercy (and whether he was truly either), but just settled against the wall beside him and continued to watch the show.

The ‘Sing-along Rule’ wasn’t really broken until all of the cake was gone and just about everyone had broken enough rules to get tipsy.  The poor lass from accounting was soon singing to virtually every song she heard, and while the lass had a lovely voice, Mallory and Tanner were gentlemanly enough to start accompanying her and covering her mouth at the first sign of a tune.  She still ended up wandering around a bit underdressed, but they stopped her after she lost nothing more than her socks, shrug, and over-shirt.  The most she’d have to regret would be running around in a tank-top with her shoulders and collarbones showing – and having two chivalrous guard-dogs who now knew that she was a lightweight and a music fanatic.

It was right before they moved into the living room for present-opening that things began to get interesting.  Someone had made a rather snide remark about ‘the songbird from accounting,’ talking about how stupid it was to break that rule with so little provocation.  Q was offended on her behalf even though the young woman herself was out of hearing range, but no one truly appreciated how 007 felt on the subject (he _was_ within hearing range), until he unexpectedly missed one of Eve’s ‘photo moments’.  “That’s one shot you owe us, Bond!” Eve called.  The blond-haired man was already making his way towards the array of shots in the kitchen, however, and waved a hand to show that he’d heard.  Perhaps Q wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but suddenly Calvin Harris’s song ‘Blame’ started playing.  At first, Q thought that he was just imagining the mild humming that he was hearing, but then the words got louder, swelling into James Bond’s full, rough-edged voice fleshing out the words, “…. _Don’t blame it on me, don’t blame it on me.  Blame it on the night_ …!”

By the time the sound finally got loud enough that Moneypenny heard it, everyone else was already staring dumbfounded, because despite all that he’d drunk, there was no way that 007 was snockered enough to start singing unless he absolutely, positively wanted to.  Eve had to know that, but she burst out into a spontaneous, almost cackling laugh, and made a face as if Christmas _and_ her birthday had come at once instead of just the one.  In a moment of total perfection, Mallory and Tanner failed to keep watch on Lilia (the girl from accounting), and before anyone knew it, she was skittering into the kitchen like metal filings to a magnet.

In summation, both of them were penalized a piece of clothing – Lilia was saved any undue humiliation by Bond simply handing over his shirt, however, claiming that there was nothing in the rules against sharing.  Bond, of course, wasn’t humiliated in the slightest by the loss of clothing, and even waited until he had the biggest audience possible (which left poor Lilia in nothing but her bra for a minute or two, but since no one was allowed to touch their phones, no incriminating photos were taken) before smiling like charm incarnate and gripping the hem of his black Henley in both hands.  Q was guilty of staring at the slow rise of that soft cloth, stripped artfully upwards, revealing toned, tanned skin beneath at a perfectly measured pace.  By the time Bond was finished (and was coaxing his shirt down over Lilia’s bewildered head), there were many wolf-whistles, and Moneypenny had a heavy-lidded look in her eyes that said, ‘ _Best. Birthday present. Ever_.’

“You’re shameless, Moneypants,” Q informed her, then slipped away before she could decide whether that was a common enough nickname to catch him with the ‘Name Rule’ and make him lie with his head in her lap.

Lilia, totally smashed but totally happy, petted her new shirt in a bemused fashion until Mallory and Tanner found her again.

A shirtless James was a distracting James.  He was unabashed about his body and had good reason to be as smug as a peacock in full plumage, because he was stupidly athletic and scarred besides to keep things interesting.  When he wasn’t telling random people about the time Moneypenny had shot him off a train, he was simply moving with the almost artistic, rough grace of a sated predator.  Even if Q hadn’t been pansexual, he was fairly certain that he would have been impressed, and Eve took advantage of her birthday girl status to indulge in some sexual harassment – all of which 007 accepted as a matter of course, although he refused to sing again.

Bond may as well have been a party-favor.  A smug bastard of a party favor.

“Okay, enough chitchat, I’m opening presents!” Moneypenny finally declared, and held her glass aloft, challenging everyone to clink her glass as she walked through the crowd to the living room.  Tanner was distracted and didn’t lift his glass, then swore quietly when he was told to go take a shot – then had to take another because of his swearing.

There wasn’t enough seating for everyone, but the living room had the loveliest plush carpeting, so when Q came in, he took up a perch on the floor.  James must have been pouring himself another drink, because by the time he turned up, he had no choice but to do the same, folding up his legs and settling down next to Q.  It was comfortable.  Relaxed.

And bothersome as hell, because apparently James didn’t get drunk: he got _annoying_.

“Stop that.”  Bond had been tugging at Q’s shoelaces, apparently with all of the unconscious intent of a bored child, but a light swat stopped him.  Both men went back to watching Moneypenny make her way through presents, her glee doubled by the fact that 006 had just slipped up and called her ‘Eve’.  It was actually a surprise that the verbal mistake really _did_ appear to be a mistake, and not a purposeful attempt at getting lap-time, and Moneypenny grinned like the shark she was as she reclined in her seat and gestured at her lap imperiously.  Alec, who had looked a bit off-balance at being caught, regained himself with a smooth smile and flopped onto the sofa beside her, head pillowed happily where her short skirt rode up her smooth, chocolate-toned legs.  Q’s first thought was that opening presents would take a damned sight longer with Alec there, because he was already being ‘helpful,’ reaching up as if half the presents were his.

Q’s second thought was that his drink was missing, and his third thought was that it was in James Bond’s hands.

“007, you insufferable-!”  Q cut himself off before cursing, grabbing his glass back and just remembering to cup it in both hands, as was his punishment for having a work-oriented mind.  However, he did not stop himself in time to recall that nicknames were not all titles created out of fun and camaraderie - and that common ones would get him caught.

James Bond, _codenamed 007_ , was already smirking like a goddamned Cheshire cat even before R popped up seemingly out of nowhere and put up the alarm, “Nickname alert!”

Sputtering, Q swung around to where Eve was already following R’s accusatory finger-pointing.  “That’s not a common nickname – that’s a title,” Q defended, “The rules don’t cover that.”

Unfortunately, when Eve realized who were the two men at fault, she didn’t look like she was inclined towards leniency: she had that Christmas-plus-birthday look on her face again, and Q suddenly felt a lot like he was being visually undressed… along with 007.  It was Alec who summed up pretty much everything as he rocked his head on Eve’s knee (his tenure there not _quite_ done, apparently), grinned like a wolf amidst sheep, and called glibly, “Well, won’t the two of you make a pretty picture.  Come on, Your Royal Hackerness, your throne awaits, and I can’t move until you do.”

Everyone was laughing, and Q was pretty sure that he was turning a bright tomato-red.  He glanced at Bond – who was, predictably, looking quite relaxed and pleased with himself – and muttered, “This is all your fault.”  Leaving his glass in Bond’s possession, Q bent to the force of peer pressure and shuffled over slowly, folding himself down with all the awkwardness of a newly fledged bird on unsteady wings until he felt the denim of Bond’s dark-wash jeans just brush his right ear.  Almost losing his nerve, Q sucked in a breath and felt his heart rabbit, but when he glanced helplessly over at Eve, all he got was a cat-in-cream smile that was no help at all.

Actually, it was a bit helpful.  Q could be terribly spiteful at the oddest of moments, and it was a flash of rebellious, stubborn fire that helped him push his mortification down and drop his head with a determined thump.  There.  If people were expecting him to quaver and shy away like a unbroken colt, then they’d be waiting in vain.  Head in Bond’s lap and the most brutal of scowls all over his face – all directed Moneypenny’s way, because if this wasn’t Bond’s fault it was hers – the Quartermaster of MI6 folded his arms and relaxed into his new, reclined pose.

“Don’t get cozy, 007,” Q griped, not caring that he was using nicknames because he could hardly break the rule more, “I won’t be here long.”

“No one’s getting cozy,” came back Bond’s mollifying reply.  However, he did indeed seem quite cozy, sipping Q’s wine from his left hand (still possibly his dominant hand, but there was no way to tell) and leaning back against the side of the sofa nearest him.  His arctic-blue eyes were half-lidded and gazing off towards where Eve was unwrapping another present, but the curl of his mouth said that he was focused on something far more interesting and nearby.

The thing was… Q wasn’t relieved of his lap-duty as quickly as he’d hoped.  On average, everyone guilty of breaking the ‘Name Rule’ had spent about three minutes on anyone’s lap – either someone else slipped up or a friend took pity on them and purposefully said a first name to switch the burden.  However, five minutes later and everyone was still scrupulously following the rule, and Q was getting increasingly exasperated with the state of things.

“You’re all doing this on purpose,” Q eventually accused.

Eve had the unmitigated gall to smile and reply, “We’d never do that.”

“Bullshit,” Q snapped back hotly, miffed and unable to do anything about it because he was stuck with _his head on James Bond’s lap_ for the foreseeable future.  “You would, too.”

Unfortunately, instead of maintaining her position in the argument, Moneypenny merely gave in with an even broader smirk and said, “Fine.  You’re right.  We totally would – but only because you look adorable together and I don’t get entertainment like this every day.  And another thing-”  Eve raised a finger and Q raised a questioning eyebrow.  The other shoe dropped as Eve added, “No swearing.  Someone get our favorite boffin a shot, please.”

“Oh for the love of-” Q started even as he was peripherally aware of James raising a hand, requesting a certain shot in particular.  The Quartermaster was literally rolling his eyes too hard to catch what shot it was, and for all he knew, 007 had made it himself in preparation for this – because Bond was that shady _and_ that good.  When Alec – ever obedient when involved in devilish endeavors – returned faithfully with a small shot-glass of creamy liquid, Q started to sit up on reflex before literally the whole room shouted him down again.  “I’m going to choke!” Q protested, even as he rolled over on his back instead, helpless and lacking any ideas on what to do about all this.

“No, you won’t, love, now take the shot,” Bond coaxed calmingly, then coached, “Just don’t knock it back as fast as you usually would – no one will judge you for that.”

Startled  by how easily Bond switched out ‘love’ for any potentially punishable name, Q glanced up at the smiling face hanging over him and just managed to snark dryly, “I sure hope not, because the other option is a drowned Quartermaster.  It falls on you to explain to everyone why MI6 has to go hunting for a new one when the medics can’t revive me.”

“Sweetheart,” Eve said with jaded patience from across the room, “Accept the inevitable and take your shot.”

If Q had kept arguing he was sure that he’d have been let out of all this, since this was ultimately supposed to be a fun party.  However, the thought of being the first to tuck-tail and run (and potentially ruin the mood of Eve’s party) was slightly more stomach-churning than the thought of staying on Bond’s lap and downing alcohol while in a supine position.  Bracing himself, Q took the shot-glass (in both hands) and raised it to his lips with closed eyes and a grimace already in place.

Only to be pleasantly surprised.

“Rumchata,” James supplied when Q’s eyes snapped open, cream still on his lips – or, rather, rice-milk still on the seam of his mouth.  “There might be a little bit less rum than usual, but our lady of the hour has always made them with a reserved hand.”

“You say that like I’m a pansy,” Eve retorted, but she had a slightly relieved look in her eye, showing that she was glad with Bond’s hand in this, “But I happen to _like_ the way Horchata tastes all on its own.  I was saving it for myself for later, I’ll have you know.”

“Were you?”  Butter couldn’t have melted in Bond’s mouth.  He took Q’s shot-glass away only to rest it – and his hand – on Q’s lax stomach, causing all of the underlying muscles to tense and jolt in mild surprise.

That wasn’t the end of the touching, however.  Q eventually rolled over onto his side again, partially to knock the shot-glass off his navel (a childish move, but he felt no shame considering the circumstances) and partially so that he would have something to stare at besides the sculpted angles of Bond’s torso, throat, and jaw above him.  Somehow, the change in angle only made 007 more alluring, and Q blamed the alcohol, which had now built up in his system.  Once Q had been on his side for a few minutes (watching as Eve unwrapped what could only be a pink-sparkle dildo), which was just long enough to half-forget exactly where he was, the brush of something against his side made him twitch and tense reflexively.  The touch was to his ribs, high enough up that the only thing that generally touched Q there was the inside of his own upper arm, but now he had deft fingers skimming his pullover like feathers on a lake-surface.  Watching this out of the corner of his eye, Q frowned, then opened his mouth to ask what the devil Bond thought he was doing.  For some reason Q just couldn’t find the impetus to get the words out, however, and he instead just stared at his own private show – fingers dancing with increasing weight upon his ribs.

It was true that everyone was still purposefully avoiding first names and nicknames to keep Bond and Q literally attached at the hip, but otherwise attention had turned to Eve’s present-unwrapping and other random slips in the night’s game.  Therefore, no one was paying Bond or Q any particular mind, and missed the way Q’s breath caught when James finally ceased to tickle with his finger tips and instead dared to cup his entire hand over the lower curvature of Q’s ribcage.  It was a sudden and heavy pressure, possessive, and yet Bond hadn’t looked down or shifted his attention from idly gazing forward.  When he stroked down, his palm smoothing Q’s striped pullover from ribs to hipbone, his eyes perhaps became slightly more heavily lidded, his smile more enigmatically pleased.

Q didn’t think that he was drunk, and he’d been controlling his alcohol consumption enough that he shouldn’t have reached his limit for sobriety, but he didn’t know how else to explain how erotically pleasant it was to have 007 petting him in the middle of a crowd.  Somehow, with his cheek pillowed against one strong thigh and his body stretched out against soft, thick carpeting, it felt less like he was in public and more like… something secluded.  He was enclosed on multiple sides, and would have to physically turn and look upwards to meet any eye in the room save a few.

Perhaps it was this feeling of somehow illicit safety that made Q just hum instead of snarl when Bond’s strong fingers massaged his flank, tracing the point of his hipbone before going still again to press the heat of his palm like a brand into Q’s skin.  The cloth between their skins seemed like a preciously thin cushion.

There were lots of gag-gifts of varying levels of embarrassing.  Q himself had gotten Eve a packet of sticky-backed mustaches for her to apply as needed.  There were also more sex-toys to giggle and groan over.  Bond’s hand had grown complacent again by the time Eve opened up a particularly creative kind of vibrator, but his fingers moved to rub small circles through Q’s pullover, just to the right of the Quartermaster’s navel.

“That is hardly professional, 007,” Q finally decided to whisper.  He couldn’t find any particular censure to put in his tone, but with something suspiciously like interest starting to fizzle dangerously beneath his skin, Q thought that it bore saying.

By now, everyone should have known that Bond had an answer for everything: he answered without missing a beat, “The same could be said about your _second_ favorite agent giving a Rabbit to the MI6 secretary.”

‘ _Ah, second-favorite_ …’  Q’s brain immediately leapt to 006, before he realized how quickly he’d allowed 007 to become _the_ favorite.  Startled at how easily Bond had walked him into that one, the Quartermaster swiveled his head up to give Bond a slight glare.  “You’re awfully full of yourself,” he observed.

Bond still didn’t look down, maintaining his cover of paying attention to the birthday proceedings and not the young man in his lap, but his grin curved significantly farther and Q was able to see the jovial fire lit in pale-blue eyes.  “I’ve some very unprofessional replies to that, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear any of them.”

Being a curious person by nature, Q’s tongue moved to say that yes, maybe he did, but he strangled off that reply before it could get him into trouble.  Perhaps James still noticed something, because the man glanced down, and then his hand strayed in a slow, heavy pet up Q’s side towards his shoulder.  “What do you think you’re doing, 007?” Q asked quietly instead of trying to unpuzzle Bond’s unprofessional thoughts.

Once again, the answer came without hesitation, but this time was accompanied by a shrug of muscular bare shoulders, “I figured that while the two of us are stuck like this, we may as well make the best of it.  Correct me if I’m crossing too many boundaries for you to stomach.”

Bond managed to make the last line sound like a challenge, and since Q was apparently a testy, contrary little shit when he was buzzed, he immediately decided that there were no boundaries to be crossed at all.  So there.  Therefore, when Bond paused for a bit as if expecting some belaying comment, Q merely held his ground and even snuggled in a bit.  He thought he felt the huffed breath of surprise casting Bond’s breath down over his head, and then the agent’s hand was moving again, curling up over Q’s shoulder and subtly squeezing the muscle there.  Then, with no more hesitation because Q was giving him no stops, 007’s hand slide down Q’s trapezius and slipped in around the side of his neck.  The younger man had a split second to feel threatened by those lethal fingers so close to his throat, then James’s hand flexed, shifted, and gave Q ample reason to relax as it began needing at the muscles between Q’s neck and shoulder; Bond’s blunt thumb likewise applied pressure to the small muscles that edged Q’s spine, sending happy shivers down his nape.

At the angle Q was lying at, head curled upon Bond’s upper leg and arms curled up in front of him, Bond’s hand almost disappeared between the wild cloud of Q’s dark hair and the shadow of his arched shoulder.  Bond was also a master of keeping the rest of his body still, giving away as little as possible even as he messaged Q’s skin and even slipped his fingers in past Q’s collar.  Bond moved slowly and with purpose, and with such unapologetic power in his grip that Q felt his muscles go to putty just as soon as the unplanned shot of adrenalin faded.  Bond was terrifyingly skilled and strong – but right now he had magic hands, and Q arched into it without thinking, his eyes fluttering closed.  Just as Q sighed (nearly giving the game away and drawing eyes back to them), 007 slipped his hand away from the side of Q’s neck and instead dragged two crooked fingers down his back, the pressure like blunted claws down the rungs of Q’s spine.  It was a lazy, decadent stroke.

Q didn’t understand why James had suddenly pulled his hand away until he opened his eyes, miffed, and looked back to see that Bond was bracing his hand innocently on the floor.  Why?  Because apparently 007 and the Quartermaster weren’t invisible anymore, and Eve caught Q’s attention with a surprised but also suspicious question, “Are you seriously falling asleep at my party?”

Somehow, Q managed a glib response after just one heart-pounding moment where he feared discovery.  “What do you expect?  I just had two glasses of wine and multiple shots – alcohol makes me sleepy!”

Eve narrowed her eyes and quirked her lips.  “Or is our blue-eyed monster just very comfy?” she asked shrewdly.

Q couldn’t help the heat that rose up towards his ears, but as he stuttered, James… abruptly decided to remedy the situation.

In the most ‘James Bond’ way possible.

Fingers curled under the Quartermaster’s chin, tipping his head up and back.  Before Q could do more than beetle his brows, confused as to what the devil James wanted, the 00-agent bent down over him in a glorious combination of flexing muscles and tanned skin… and captured Q’s mouth in a quick kiss that grew heated fast.

Q’s brain short-circuited a little, but he rebooted just in time to chase Bond’s lips back when the man withdrew.  There were impressed whistles to be heard in the room – not wolf-whistles.  This required more respect than that, apparently.  Eyes darker than before but still as blue as a winter-sky, James flashed Q a smile that spilled fire everywhere (and most assuredly down to Q’s more southerly parts) before glancing up at Eve, as mildly as you please, “I’ll keep him awake, if the birthday girl commands it.”

Chin propped on her hand and eyes watching Bond and Q like the best show on earth – and really, what was better than her boyish Quartermaster stretched out in the lap of one of MI6’s most handsome (and presently shirtless) rogues, kissing one another like they were in a secluded corner at a smoky club instead of in the open where everyone could ogle them? – Eve Moneypenny waved her free hand along with a piece of ribbon from her last present.  “Oh, I definitely wish it.  Consider it a birthday present to me.”

Bond’s smile was wicked, even though it only got a few millimeters wider.  Still, it darkened his eyes like an invitation from the devil himself, and more than a few of the other partygoers got hot under the collar.  “I think that that could be arranged.  Right, Quartermaster?”

“That…”  Q was still staring upwards – up the rippled lines of Bond’s abdominals, lax as he slouched, the flat planes of his pectorals, the sharp ridges of his collarbones and jaw – and he had to blink a few times and lick his lips while he got his words in order.  The slide of his tongue across his own lips nearly distracted him again, as he tasted the scotch that Bond had been drinking, mixed with his own alcohol of choice.  Still, by the time Bond switched his focus back down to him, the Quartermaster managed in a breathy but even voice, “That’s a nickname.  You used my nickname like I used yours.”

When Bond flashed a grin this time, it was impish.  “Why, I did, didn’t I?  What a pity.  I was getting rather comfortable like this.”

So was Q.  “So was I, James.”

“Ah, fuck,” Alec broke the mood from across the room, rolling his eyes dramatically and throwing his arms upwards, too.  “So much for that rule.  They’re going to be breaking it insufferably now, you all know that, right?”

Bond and Q were no longer listening.  They’d had sufficient alcohol and sufficient encouragement to start kissing again, Q leaning up and catching Bond’s jaw in his hand because he wanted to feel the stubble against his palm, and Bond leaning back in with something like a happy growl rumbling low in his bare chest.  It would soon be impossible to tell who was in whose lap, but Alec was quite right: some rules were not only meant to be broken, but presently destined to be broken _repeatedly_ in the name of a good time.

Eve, congratulating herself on having an excellent Rule 69 for this party, pulled out her camera.  This time she didn’t give any warning, but simply snapped a shot of her two favorite people while she had the chance.  With tomorrow, sobriety would come and no doubt second-guessing, but Moneypenny would be damned if she let anyone (Q, Bond – _herself_ ) forget just how sexy and happy those two were right at this moment.

Blissfully ignorant for the moment, Bond and Q just kept enjoying themselves, and the rest of the party fell away as they chased the taste of wine and scotch across each other’s tongues.  

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the swift and valiant [Sprinbgok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7), who got an email from me less than 12 hours ago saying, "Hey, so I said I was on hiatus, but I sort of lied... and I wrote pandemonium. Want to edit?" She's a brave soul for diving in without a hitch. Give her all of your internet-hugs for getting an edited story back for everyone so quickly!


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